At Arkham’s Train Station.
“Hi, Bill,” said Agnes Baker, “a ticket to Frisco, please.”
“Why you going ‘cross country, Miss Baker?” said the ticketmaster as he stamped and signed a slip of printed card.
“The conversion or murder of a deluded sociopath and probable teleportation to another dimension.”
“Eh?” said Bill, cupping his hand behind his ear.
She smiled. “Oh, you know, family wedding, the usual kinda thing.”
“Conversion?” said Agnes, wondering if she was able to do such a thing, “Can I free someone’s mind, I seriously doubt that.”
She made involuntary eye contact with a tramp, but she looked away immediately. Her eyes flitted back and, yes, the tramp was still looking at her, staring. He stood and walked purposefully towards her. She saw the glint of a knife which he had concealed in his sleeve.
“Oh, God,” she thought. “This is my moment to prove that I am the sorceress of whom I dreamed, but what do I do, what can I do?”
“They call me Penderghast,” said the tramp. A surprised Agnes stifled a gasp. The man was decidedly oriental in appearance, a tattoo of a winged barrel—for that is how she would describe it—was scratched into Penderghast’s forehead. “I am at your service.”